I'm a Little Airplane Neeowww

I’m a little airplane neeowww
I’m a little airplane neeowww
I’m a little airplane neeowww
I’m a little airplane neeowww
neeowww, neeoww, neeoww, neeoww
I’m a little airplane neeowww, neeoww, neeoww.

Just figured out the chords for Teo’s favorite dance song (above).
It’s off an ancient-of-days Sesame Street Dance Video
we rent every so often, just for that song.
The Toot careens around the living room with arms extended
stomping down or bouncing off all the stuff that needs to be picked up.

Watched the opening ceremony of the Olympic games
at 2:30 am last night (it’s finally darkish at night again...
I like it) trying to put Annika to sleep.
It was so odd, this weird ritual of the torch being passed
from Chinese athlete to Chinese athlete in a big stadium
(It may have been explained, I didn’t have the sound on)
and then an older athlete guy with torch was picked up by a sky cable
and was swung forward as he pretended to run
(his shadow was right, but the angle of the camera
catching his actual body made it look like senseless writhing,
which, from a political viewpoint, was just right) while his shadow,
as it projected on the surface behind him with a following spotlight,
unraveled what I took to be a 360-degree television screen rimming
the humongous stadium. Finally, as if he were lighting a fuse,
he lit the bottom of the mungo torch, and the fire raced up in a line
around the ribbony architecture of the torch, and instead of an explosion,
the torch began burning (putting off something like 20 million BTU’s,
enough heat expended in ten minutes
to heat our house for the next millennium. Or something.)
And you thought church ritual was odd and wasteful?

Like I said, I shouldn’t be blogging on no sleep.

Annika’s eating food for a week and remaining constipated.
Now, that’s stupid. The formula, the cereal, it’s all
jam packed with supplemental iron. Iron’s bad. Calcium too.
I have experience. The last time I thought my bones might need help,
two summers ago, the ensuing medical debacle almost did me in.
Anyway, so I’m trying oat bran on her, but it needs to be whipped
in the blender because she apparently doesn’t like grit.
Jury’s out whether it helps.

And here’s Matteo in heaven, in the cockpit of a Black Hawk helicopter
from the Fair last Sunday. He’s taken over Marin’s Airplane book,
it’s like Roger Tory Peterson’s bird book, three or four planes per page,
in categories like float planes, twin engine, commercial, and so on.

Matteo now calls out what the plane is (or what he remembers)
whenever there’s a silhouette on the skyline. “Dash Eight!” or
“Dee Cee Nine!” Or “deHavilland Beaver!”

Closer to home, he has his
“Eskimo Plane,” a six-inch Boeing 747 with Alaska Air decals on it.
It flies all around the house on pounding little feet,
especially when Annika’s trying to sleep.
Several balsa wood planes have met their fate in his care.
We have a balsa-wood-airplane parts shop now,
undamaged pieces salvaged from the various crashes,
and inadvertent but no less disastrous crushing missteps,
some while he was lofting the Eskimo plane,
with its fuselage and wings of metal.
And, about those plastic tail fins – well they’re long gone.